Fabrizio de André

English Translations of his Songs

by Simon Evnine

La Città Vecchia

The Old Town

Singable Translation:

In the streets on which the sun the good Lord made refuses to shine –

keeping people warm in other parts of town takes up all his time –

a young girl sings the song that whores have used so long to broadcast their charms:

what you still don’t know is something I can show you only here between my arms.

And if, with her young years, her competence is clearly open to question

a little practice will give her all the skill she needs for perfection.

Ah by Juno how it used to be so different in days of yore

when a person had to have a real vocation just to be a simple whore.

One leg over here, one leg over there, bloated with wine

four retired old boys (and one and all half-poisoned), passing the time.

And come rain or shine, this is where you’ll find them, always together

Bibulously guzzling, fouly imprecating women, government and weather.

They’re just searching for a little happiness, inside a glass

in order to forget the many times that they’ve been kicked in the ass

Some small joy there’ll be, in their agony, with wine on their lips

and across their face a little smile will race, as they all cash in their chips.

Elderly professor, in that darkened hallway, who comes to meet you?

Could it be the only one who still has got something to teach you?

The one of whom, by day, with great contempt you say that she’s a wife-at-large;

the same one who by night, adjusts to your delights the prices that she’s going to charge.

As you close the door, you’ll feel you need some more if you’re to get your fill,

putting off until the last day of the month paying the bill.

And when you cash your pension check you’ll find there’s nothing left to enjoy.

You pay 10,000 lire just so you can hear her tell you you’re a naughty boy.

Down towards the port, where the air is fraught with smells of decay

thieves of every kind and murderers you’ll find, come night or day.

And if you can brave the narrow alleyways along the old wharf

you’ll see the crazy guy who, for three thousand lire, sold his mother to a dwarf.

An upright citizen’s opinion of such men is bound to be harsh:

You’ll probably think that they should all be locked away to die behind bars.

But if you look at them from top to bottom then you’ll certainly see

if they’re not pure inside, they’re still their mothers' pride; they’re victims of society.

Literal Translation:

In the parts of town where the good Lord’s sun doesn’t send his rays –

he’s too busy keeping people warm elsewhere –

a young girl sings the ancient song of the prostitute:

what you still don’t know you can only learn here in my arms.
 

And if, inevitably, at her age she lacks competence,

with experience, she’ll soon get the hang of it.

Where are the days of old, by Juno,

when to be on the game you also needed some vocation?

One leg over here, another over there, bloated with wine,

four pensioners, nearly embalmed, around a table.

You’ll find them there, in all weathers, summer and winter,

guzzling, and foul-mouthing women, the weather and the government.
 

They’re looking for happiness at the bottom of a glass,

to forget how often they’ve had one put over on them.

With strong wine, there’ll be joy even in agony –

in the arms of death they’ll wear the shadow of a smile.
 

Venerable professor, what are you looking for in that doorway?

Could it be the only one who can give you a lesson –

she whom by day you contemptuously call a “public wife”,

and who by night adjusts her price to your desires?
 

You’ll look for her, you’ll call her time and again,

you’ll wake up exhausted, putting off everything till the end of the month.

And when you cash your check, you’ll waste half your pension –

ten thousand lire just to hear yourself called “pussums, sweetie and big boy.”
 

Going further, along the alleyways of the old wharves,

in that thick air, loaded with salt, swollen with smells,

there you’ll find thieves, murderers, and that strange guy,

the one who sold his mother to a dwarf for a few bucks.
 

If you think, if you judge from a middle-class point of view,

you’ll send them all down for five thousand years, plus costs!

But if you understand, if you examine them from top to bottom –

well, they may not be lilies, but they’re somebody’s children, victims of this world.